


The Reaper's Muse

by MusicalsOutofContext



Category: The Missing - Margaret Peterson Haddix
Genre: American Civil War, Edgar Allan Poe References, F/M, French Revolution, History, Interchronological Rescue, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, References to Jane Austen, Regency, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Time Travel, Titanic References, Versailles - Freeform, Victorian, fashion history, marie antoinette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-27 01:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalsOutofContext/pseuds/MusicalsOutofContext
Summary: Just when he thinks saving the Skidmore kids is the hardest job of his life, JB meets Samantha Cretney, an historian who, unbeknownst to her, has lived thirteen different lives throughout history as a test subject for one of Interchronological Rescue's experiments. Now, her very existence is a threat to the universe. Why must saving the world always require sacrifice?
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

Samantha Cretney was just about to leave the museum when JB almost gave her a heart attack.

If she had blinked, she would have missed it, this man materializing out of nowhere. One second, she was finishing a seam on a surviving 1880s gown, the next, she was staring at what must be a ghost—though the man looked pretty solid now. He wasn’t a scary-looking ghost. In fact, were she not stunned into oblivion, she would have found him rather handsome. He had dark chestnut brown hair and a set of intensely green eyes that stared into hers with what appeared to be recognition. But she’d never seen him before.

It should have occurred to her that screaming while alone in the basement of a closed museum wouldn’t do her much good, especially if the man truly was a ghost, but she felt the cry of terror rip out of her throat involuntarily. He immediately shrank at the sound and backed away, cautiously, as though trying to reassure a startled deer. The usually dusty scent of the basement suddenly mingled with a hint of pine and licorice. 

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, sounding almost embarrassed, as though he’d caught her at a bad time. To be fair, was there ever a good time to literally appear into thin air in front of a young woman alone in a spooky basement? Still, if he’d wanted to hurt her, he should have done so by now, while she was cowering in the back corner of the room across from him, completely vulnerable.

He wore a pair of basic tan pants and a button-up flannel shirt, but he clearly wasn’t from around here. The clothes hung on him like a costume, the way Victorian gowns hung on inexperienced reenactors who weren’t used to moving about in so many layers. Something about it just didn’t look quite right. Slowly, carefully, he crept closer to her, still crouched low, probably so as not to tower over the frightened woman, who didn’t look like she would surpass much more than five feet were she standing.

Sam hugged her knees and peered between the strands of wavy brown hair that now shielded her face. What did he want from her?

“And this is for sure the best plan?” he asked, pulling what looked like a phone from his pants pocket. He cocked his head at the device, and then nodded, as though a satisfactory answer had appeared on the screen. “If you say so.”

She didn’t notice any earbuds on him, so it couldn’t have been a phone call. Maybe a voice-activated text message conversation? But he wasn’t enunciating or talking particularly slowly the way most phones required when translating a voice to text. 

She shuddered and thought about all the times in the past when people had called her paranoid. Most people thought Sam was paranoid because she startled easily and often envisioned worst case scenarios. That’s not how Sam saw it. What others called paranoid, she called prepared. Why she constantly felt the need to prepare for murderers or natural disasters was unclear, but seeing as this man was certainly an intruder and quite possibly a murderer, the fears that had plagued her all her life seemed quite reasonable now. And yet, for all the mental preparations she’d done in the past, she now found herself frozen, mute, helpless.

The longer she watched him, however, the less likely it seemed that he meant her harm. She wasn’t about to go shake his hand and welcome him to the Hillside History Museum, but she felt brave enough now to tuck her hair behind her ears to get a better look at the man’s odd behavior.

“Samantha,” he finally said, and the look of recognition had not left his eyes, though she was certain she’d never seen him in her life. She felt herself shrink back into her corner. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. It was the fastest way to get you to believe what I’m going to say next.”

Whatever it was, she was not going to like it. Of that she was certain. “H-how do you know m-my name?” she managed to stutter.

His eyes blazed with even more intensity and he knelt closer, the smell of pine and licorice a bit stronger now.

He took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though what he was about to tell her would not be easy. “I know your name because I’m from the future. And pretty much everyone in the future knows your name.”

She blinked. That was definitely not what she expected. Part of her thought he must be crazy, saying such nonsense, but then . . . hadn’t she just witnessed him emerge out of nowhere, as though from another dimension? If he was crazy, then so was she.

“From the future,” she said, “and you know me because in the future everyone knows me?” The words sounded just as ridiculous coming from her mouth.

He shrugged, almost apologetically. “I know,” he said. “I know how that sounds. Just bear with me for a bit longer while I explain and then we can talk business.”

Then we can talk business? She was, apparently, in possession of something, or some knowledge, that he felt was important. This hardly made sense. What could she, an art and fashion historian, possibly offer someone who claimed to be able to travel through time and witness history himself?

“Let’s go somewhere I can actually show you what I mean,” he said, grabbing hold of her hand. His grip was firm, but not violent. Protective was more accurate. “This is going to get weird, but you’ll be okay.”

She had not given him any inclination that she wanted to follow him, but before she had a chance to even attempt to break free from his grasp, the room started to spin. Slowly, at first, like the rotating stage from when she’d performed in Les Mis, then faster, to the speed of the teacup ride at Disneyland, and even faster until she was certain they were outrunning the speed of light.

Her head throbbed. Her stomach twisted. The lights that appeared in the distance burned her eyes. If he felt as ill as she did, he did a great job of hiding it. He just drifted beside her, still holding tightly to her hand, as they raced toward the lights below.

“Timesickness is very common on your first trip,” he said, as though that was somehow supposed to comfort her. “Plus we’re only headed to a time hollow for now. You’ll be okay once we land.”

Unable to speak, she just gaped at him. Timesickness? The word sounded so dumb, she might have laughed if she weren’t terrified. And what was the other word? Time hollow? That was less funny. That just sounded ominous. She swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she’d wake up and realize this was all a nightmare.

Yet somehow she knew it wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

“So you’re a costume curator?” he asked, for what was probably the fifth time. She couldn’t blame him. She was a lot of things, and costume curator was only one of her many roles.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s part of my job. I do a lot.” Her official title was Immersive Learning Coordinator and Fashion Historian. Her job during museum hours involved teaching school kids about the past by running overnight camps where students got to experience a similar lifestyle to their ancestors from previous centuries. This involved putting together historically accurate wardrobes for the kids, hiring actors to interact with the groups as historical figures, researching and recreating daily activities that were common for elementary school-aged children in the time period, and obviously making sure that modern standards of safety were not compromised in the process. After closing, she worked with surviving historical garments and mannequins, preserving originals and recreating replicas of pieces that were too fragile to display publicly. At Christmastime, she volunteered at the annual Dickens Festival as an actress and caroller. Sometimes she worked as a costume designer in period productions at the local community theatre, while often simultaneously appearing on stage when she found the time to dedicate a couple months to rehearsals and performances. Usually, even that wasn’t enough to satisfy her artistic desires. She was certain that if given ten more hours every day, she would fill them immediately with the hundreds of hobbies she’d always wanted to try but never had the time to persue. It often felt like one lifetime wasn’t nearly enough for her. 

Of course, she wasn’t about to explain everything about herself to this man who had just kidnapped her and teleported her into what he called a “time hollow” and what, to her, looked like a regular old cave with damp walls and grimy floors. 

“What’s your name?” she finally asked him.

He hesitated. “Uh…in the twenty-first century I go by JB. Let’s stick with that.”

Okay?

“I’m a time agent,” he continued seriously. “I’m in charge of protecting time and history. In a way, our jobs are kind of similar.” He smiled at her, as though somehow that statement would make him seem more trustworthy. “I’ve brought you here because the time agency assigned me a mission. That mission involves you.”

She didn’t see how she could be of any use to a time agency from the future, no matter what her job was. Her experience was based on research, yes, but a lot about history was still unknown, unrecorded. If JB was in fact a time agent, wouldn’t he already have all the historical knowledge he needed? 

JB paced around the cave now, swaying awkwardly in those clothes that definitely didn’t look natural on him. She wondered what kinds of clothes people wore in the future—if that’s really where he was from. It would definitely explain a few things, if so. Maybe it wasn’t so unbelievable, the idea of time travel. 

“Why do you need my help?” she finally said. “I don’t know anything about time travel.” If he was a murderer, she’d keep him talking to buy herself time. If he was telling the truth, she wanted all the details. 

JB stopped pacing and met her eyes. Was that desperation she saw in them? “Believe me, you know more than you realize. Right now, the agency needs someone like you, more than ever. Something is messed up, very badly. Normally we have the ability to turn invisible, see tracers, contact other agents for help…but time criminals have ruined so much. Our Elucidators are unpredictable, and we have no way of navigating in the past like time natives when none of the usual tools are at our disposal.”

She must have looked as confused as she felt, because JB sighed and put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry. I’m sure none of that makes any sense. Let me start over.” He looked at the ceiling for a moment, as though trying to figure out how best to word his next phrase. Finally, he let go of her shoulders and spoke again. “Imagine if everyone’s cell phone stopped working all of a sudden. And the internet ceased to exist, and you had to just rely on the knowledge you had in your head. No GPS, no calculator, no search engines, no fast communication. You’d have to depend on people who could do complex math problems by hand, people who knew how to read an actual map.”

“I’m terrible with math and directions,” she interrupted, though she was pretty sure that wasn’t the point.

JB frowned and threw his hands up in exasperation. “It’s just an analogy. Anyway, right now, time agents like me have lost a lot of resources that we usually use in time travel. We do know our history pretty well, but we’ve never had to navigate the past without the help of Elucidators—basically really advanced smartphones that are also time-travel devices,” he added just as she opened her mouth to ask what on earth an Elucidator was. “Normally, Elucidators can make us invisible and show us how history is supposed to play out. That way we don’t have to worry about blending in with our surroundings to avoid causing any bad ripple effects. But now that’s all gone. We can still do lots of stuff with our Elucidators, but time is so damaged that we have to be prepared in case they shut off entirely at any given time. We need help from someone who actually knows how to fit in with people from history. Someone like you. You know how the average person from the eighteenth century would dress, how they would interact with others, what their typical routine would be, right?”

She crossed her arms, skeptical. “That would really depend on the region, social class, decade…”

He grinned at her. “See? You’re already nailing this. If I brought you with me on some of my missions, you could make sure we pass as time natives and don’t draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

She didn’t like how he was looking at her, with that hopeful grin, like he was certain she was the answer. It was the kind of look that made her throat tighten. This was too much pressure. Time agents from the future depending on her to save history? There was no way she was qualified for such a huge responsibility. She swallowed hard and focused on the cracks that snaked across the cave floor, rolled her fingertips against her temples to silence the pounding in her skull. It was a small comfort to know JB might just be crazy, but the longer she listened to him, the more real everything felt. She jumped when the time agent waved a hand under her face to bring her focus back to him, his brow furrowed.

“You still with me, Samantha?” he asked. “You look distressed.” Then he grimaced, shaking his head. “Of course you’re distressed. I just barged into your perfectly normal life and started talking about time travel.” He actually sounded apologetic. 

“I just need to think,” she said, though it was difficult to process anything when all she had were questions.

“Fair enough,” he said. “That’s what time hollows are for. Time stops entirely in a time hollow, so take however long you need.” He glanced again at his phone—or Elucidator, she guessed—then pressed a few buttons until a screen as big as the kind in a movie theatre flashed into existence in front of them. She gasped, dazzled by the sight before her. The screen showed an eighteenth century bedroom, but the details were incredibly precise, more than any HD image she’d ever seen in the twenty-first century. It looked more like a portal to her own personal Heaven. Golden vine carvings drizzled down cotton candy blue walls. The canopy bed’s pink and green pillows looked as tasty as macarons in a French bakery. An open armoire exhibited colorful silk gowns with cascading trains and lace trim. 

“Sorry to startle you,” said JB, still pressing buttons on his Elucidator. “Just want to give you a visual of a few things.” 

But she was barely listening, too entranced by the masterpiece on the screen. “Whose room is this?” she breathed.

“It belonged to Isabelle LeBaron, a noblewoman in 1570s France.”

“1570s?” she snapped, more harshly than intended. “There’s no way this is from earlier than 1710!” She yanked her eyes away from the screen to face JB, whose lips curved up in a sly grin. 

“It was a trick question and you answered correctly,” he said, looking way too eager. “There was no such woman as Isabelle LeBaron. Though there could be if you took that name as your alias on our trip to 1765. These—” he gestured at the screen— “could be your complimentary accommodations for the duration of our stay.” 

Her heart leaped into her throat and she had to swallow the taste of yearning before it grew too sweet. 

“I think you’ll be great at this,” JB continued. “And you may not even need to do much work at all if my Elucidator can still provide us with accurate information on the go. If all goes well, all you have to do is stay close by and enjoy the experience of a lifetime. Trust me, time agents don’t go seeking out companions from the twenty-first century very often. Think about how incredible this will be for your curator job!” This was beginning to sound more like a sales pitch than a request for help, but she couldn’t deny how intriguing it sounded. Hadn’t she always felt out of place? It wasn’t just the fact that she was adopted and—though she loved her parents—never seemed to quite fit in with her family. She didn’t fit in anywhere, really. Even at the museum, Sam always stayed the latest, working on projects long past closing time, admiring the talent of seamstresses long dead. Handling each delicate fibre with care, padding and re-shaping mannequins to achieve the proper silhouette for each time period, selecting period appropriate accessories to display with each garment…these were the tasks that soothed her, made her feel like she belonged somewhere, even if that place no longer existed. She thrived in the company of ghosts.

“Samantha?” JB snapped his fingers. He was now leaning in, clearly waiting to hear some response.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. Despite the danger, despite her fear, despite the insanity of it all, something from deep in her soul craved this journey. “I’ll help you.”


End file.
